


to the beat of our drums

by thesilverdoe_1



Series: one time... at band camp... [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff and Humor, High School, LOTS OF BAND SHENANIGANS, M/M, Marching Band, Other, Past Shadam - Freeform, Pining, endgame allurance on the side, loturance love triangle on the side, ‘one time… at band camp…’
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverdoe_1/pseuds/thesilverdoe_1
Summary: Like every marching band, sophomore year is the year to prove yourself. For Keith, this means snagging the show’s opening drum solo, proving himself to be worthy for drum captain next year, and most important of all, keeping a handle on his huge crush on the drum major.





	to the beat of our drums

**Author's Note:**

> written for the sheith big bang! i've wanted to do a marching band au for forever and now it's finally here! this fic will be in 3 parts... more to come later. hopefully everything makes sense to non band nerds as well (but please feel free to tell me in the comments if something doesn't make sense)! a lot of this was based off my freshmen year band show / true stories.
> 
> if anything is confusing, see the bottom of the notes for a brief glossary~
> 
> allurance companion piece will follow up after the sheith part is over :)
> 
> i've also had the pleasure of working with the artist [asiana-airlines](http://asiana-airlines.tumblr.com/post/178127980805/to-the-beat-of-our-drums-by-flusteredkeith) (art in the link). thank you so much for putting up with me!! :P

“Keith, you know you shouldn’t be drinking soda for the next two weeks.”

Keith rolls his eyes as a familiar bossy tone rings out from behind him, followed immediately by a sharp jab to his ribs as a shock of white hair fills his vision. He spares Allura one quick glance before focusing his attention back to the vending machine where some other marching band member — a senior from the trumpet section — is feeding a dollar bill into its mouth.

“Whatever,” Keith grunts, watching as the trumpet player selects his drink. The machine shakes with an echoing rumble within before it spits out his bottle of choice: a Pepsi. “It’s only the first day. We won’t be outdoors at all today.”

“Well, I suppose _you_ won’t be,” Allura frowns as Keith scans the drink list. He has to suppress a smirk. It’s one of the many blessings of being on drumline. While the entire marching band, including Allura and the rest of her colorguard team, are sentenced to two whole weeks of being burnt to toast out in the sweltering August sun, Keith and the majority of the percussion section will be staying indoors, pampered gratuitously by a cool, consistent blast of blessed A/C.

“But even still,” she purses her lips. “You’re going to be working hard for the next five hours after our lunch break. Every bit of hydration helps.”

“Tell that to my air conditioned ass when we’re done for the day.”

The snide remark earns him another jab to the ribs and — that’s fair. It may only be their second year of band camp, but anyone’s who’s experienced even two days of marching hell is well aware that the entire band envies the percussion line for being able to stay indoors for half their summer camp.

Deciding he’d like a bottle of coke, Keith pulls his wallet out of his pockets and bends it open.

He groans.

“I thought I had some cash left in here,” he grumbles, sifting through every orifice of his wallet. He turns it upside down and shakes it. A single quarter falls out of it and into his hand.

“It’s the universe’s way of telling you to take care of yourself,” Allura shrugs. “Resist the soda. It isn’t good for you.”

“Can you just hurry _up_?” an annoyed voice calls out from the third place in line. Keith turns to the speaker with a scowl. There are five other people waiting for a soda, none of whom Keith knows the names of, but the one who spoke is definitely a third year.

Turning his head back to the machine, he stares wistfully at the picture of a bottle of coke and is about ready to concede defeat when another voice causes his heart to stop.

“Need some help?”

A couple of small gasps from behind him greets the new arrival. Keith sees guilty, shifty-eyed looks in them, especially from the shorter three in line who are probably freshmen. But judging by the pounding in his chest, they’re not the only ones whose hearts started beating faster.

Fully decked out in marching band gear, Takashi Shirogane, Drum Major of the Altea High School’s Royal Regiment, leans against the vending machine sporting a pair of basketball shorts, a T-shirt, and a giant Rubbermaid gallon of water. He gives the wind players behind Keith in line one look of appraisal and says: “Come on, guys. No soda before going out onto the field.”

A collective grumble breaks out as the line splits up and the students disperse from the vending machine. With his gaze still on Shiro, Keith raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You gonna stop me from getting a soda too, _Sir_?”

“Actually…” Shiro says with a smile. Turning to the vending machine, he takes two dollar bills from his pocket and feeds them through the insert. Without polling Keith first on his drink of choice, he punches the Coca Cola button, and the jingle of two quarters falls into the change slot followed by the rumble of a bottle popping out into the machine’s mouth. Bending forwards, Shiro grabs the coke and the change and holds the soda out to Keith.

“I was going to spot you this time.”

Keith takes the bottle, not quite able to meet his gaze. His ears are suddenly feeling hot and he’s pretty sure it’s not from the sun. “Thanks.”

“No sodas once you start working on the field though,” Shiro winks. “That wouldn’t be very becoming of a future drum captain.”

Beside him, Allura’s eyes widen.

“You didn’t tell me you were thinking of trying out for drum captain next year,” she nudges accusingly with a grin.

“I — uh —” Keith begins, mouth dry.

“—would make a great captain,” Shiro finishes, clapping him on the shoulder. Leaning in, he adds in a low voice in his ear. “If you’re intending to play quads this year, I hope you’ve given more thought to auditioning for that opening solo, Keith. Every bit of participation counts towards your potential for future captaincy. Trust me.”

With a wink, he pats his shoulder again and waves them both off. “See you out on the field, Allura.”

Keith stares after him wistfully, his smugness about not having to be baked out in the sun evaporating on the spot. Although he knows he’ll be joining the rest of the band soon enough, he’d trade all the air conditioned comforts in the world right now for more opportunities to ogle at Shiro, especially because he knows the near-hundred degree weather often coaxes said drum major out of his shirt during the hottest part of the afternoon.

“So,” Allura says with a sly smile once Shiro is out of earshot, interrupting Keith’s glorious stroll down memory lane of their fearless drum major conducting shirtless at last year’s band camp. “Shiro thinks you’d make a _‘great captain,’_ hmm?”

“Um, yeah,” Keith mumbles, stowing the image away for later when his friend _isn’t_ training her sharp eyes on him. He turns away from the vending machine and starts the trek back towards the band room. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” she grins, skipping to catch up with him. “It’s just — encouraging, that’s all.”

Keith doesn’t respond. It’s only been a few weeks since they learned that Shiro and Adam, the brass captain, had broken up sometime over the summer, but Allura’s already been displaying an overly optimistic view about it. As far as Keith knows, they were a pretty serious thing — as serious as most high school romances go, anyways — so regardless of whether they are now broken up for certain or not, Keith has long since accepted that he’s fallen hard for an unavailable guy.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything…” he mutters under his breath, feeling his stomach sink low under his belly. Allura frowns but doesn’t say anything else.

When they reach the giant building of the band room, he opens the door and allows Allura to slip in before him. A blast of air conditioning hits them immediately as they step into the large, empty space, its white colored tiles and gray walls welcoming them from the heat. The usual cacophony of several brass instruments hitting random notes in unison wars on around them, a mix of trumpet and baritone players warming up after lunch. Keith spots Lance up ahead, who catches Allura’s eye and winks.

She rolls her eyes and turns back to Keith.

“Well, I suppose you ought to enjoy your cold drink indoors,” she says gloomily. “Duty calls. See you later!”

She makes a beeline for the back of the band room where the majority of her color guard equipment is stored, leaving Keith by the grand piano at the entrance.

With three minutes to go before the end of lunch break, he opens his bottle of soda and takes a generous swig.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, settle down, settle down.”

Kolivan’s voice is level but booming as he speaks over the bauble of conversations and the screeching of chairs. He waits on the podium as all thirteen members of the drumline lines their seats up in a straight row facing the whiteboard in front.

“Now. I know we are all coming back from lunch break, but we have much to discuss.”

He steps off onto the floor and walks along in front of them.

“Our show this year, _Déjame Soñar_ , will be of the salsa-jazz genre. It will involve fast — beyond incredibly fast — beats and more adventurous ways to stretch our talents as the battery of the band. The drumline’s sheet music will be written according to our skill as a whole. Now that you’ve received your exercise sheets this morning, we need to talk about auditions. For the freshmen—” he nods at the six kids sitting the end of the row, “this means figuring out which instrument each of you will be playing. With thirteen members, we will have three snares, two tenors, five bass drummers, and three cymbals. Your individual parts and sheet music will be adjusted as we go according to your skill level, so make sure you get plenty of practice in even after you leave each day of band camp.”

“As for you lot,” he says as his eyes sweep over the rest of the remaining seven members. “I hope you’re prepared. Don’t become complacent just because you’re upperclassmen. Any one of these freshmen could end up stealing the instrument you wanted. Just as Keith did last year.”

The freshmen all turn to look at him at once. Keith’s lips tighten at the mention but otherwise makes no outwards reaction to Kolivan’s comment, wary of the sudden attention. He remembers the disappointed but resigned look of Antok, who was a senior vying for one of the slots on snare drum. In the end, he congratulated Keith before accepting his place on the bass line. After their practice session this morning though, Keith’s fairly confident he’ll get a clear shot at playing the quads this year.

“As your drum instructor, it is my job to understand your goals as a percussionist here at Altea High School and do my best to help you achieve them,” Kolivan continues. “However, if your skill at your desired instrument is not good enough, then you won’t be good enough. As an essential part of the marching band, we also must do what’s best for the drumline as a whole.”

Out of the corner of Keith’s eye, two of the first years visibly shrink in their seats. Kolivan ignores them.

“The upperclassmen already know this, but the opening of the show this year will involve a short quad solo,” he plows on. “Any of those who are vying for the two tenor positions may try out for the part, but only one of the two will get to play it for this season.

“Auditions will be held in four days’ time, this Friday. You should have plenty of time to practice until then. Don’t waste it.”

The threat of Kolivan’s disappointment hangs in the air, a heavy silence bearing down on them all. Keith resists the urge to smirk at the frightened faces of the first years.

“Now that we’ve gotten the logistics out of the way,” Kolivan says, pulling out two drumsticks from his back pocket. “Let’s start with the usual drills.”

 

* * *

 

With only four days to master the short solo clip, Keith slips in his practice at every spare moment he can get. Over the next few afternoons, he finds himself multitasking in between meals and breaks, silently tapping his drumsticks on his lap, on spare textbooks, on the concrete, on any other surface that happens to come before him, until the part becomes so ingrained into his very being that he subconsciously lives and breathes the show’s opening beat.

On Wednesday afternoon, with two days left to go, Keith manages to snag the school’s empty cafeteria to practice the solo on his tenor drum during their free time, where for the next fifteen minutes, he loses himself in the beat. _Tap, tap, tap-tap, ta-tap tap tap tap-tap…_ and on and on he goes, hitting each quad in the exact spot for the ideal sound.

He has no idea how Vrek sounds when he plays the solo. Although he is his only challenger, Vrek is a third year and has seniority on his side. Keith would have to really show him up to prove he’s worthy of playing the solo.

After his fifth run-through, the sound of someone clapping by the doorway makes him freeze up. Heart beating fast, he whips around to face the eavesdropper — and his stomach does a backflip.

Shiro.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, arms up, when Keith continues to stare at him. “I was just passing by on a bathroom break when I heard you and wanted to look in. It’s sounding really good, Keith.”

“Oh. Thanks.” And suddenly, Keith doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They feel heavy and useless holding his drumsticks at his side. “How is it out there?”

“It’s going okay,” Shiro replies. “One poor freshman sax player passed out earlier today, but seeing how it’s day three, we’re already doing better than last year.”

Keith shakes his head sympathetically. “The no-soda rule _not_ being followed? Unthinkable.”

Shiro laughs. “Actually, I think she’s anemic, unfortunately.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

Shiro shrugs. “Yeah. It happens. But on the bright side, everyone’s been picking up the drill pretty quickly. We’ve got some promising new talent this year. Might finally have the chance to win first place at the final round of championships — and for my last year, too.”

According to Iverson, it’s been seven years now since Altea High School’s Royal Regiment has won first place at the end of the Western Band Association championships. Galra Tech has been winning five years in the running now. But that’s not why Keith receives a heavy sinking feeling in his stomach at these words. It’s only been day three of band camp and already this marching season is shaping out to be filled with too many wistful reminders of the one thing he wishes he never has to face in his entire high school career.

Shiro, graduating.

“I hope we do, too,” Keith agrees, forcing a smile. “If we can get every single member of the band to work their hardest all season, there’s no reason we can’t win this year.”

Shiro brightens considerably at these words and nods.

“Has Matt devolved into singing Christmas music to cope yet?”

He recalls being close in proximity to Matt Holt last year in one of their drill sets and wondering why the fuck this weird, nerdy clarinet player was singing _Let it Snow!_ on the football field while they were idling by on the grass. Later, Shiro had confirmed it was a bad habit Matt developed his sophomore year as his own special way of dealing with the August heat when they had nothing better to do in idle moments of practice.

“Surprisingly no,” Shiro says. “But I suspect he’ll crack soon. It’s been forecast to hit the hundreds this Saturday.”

Keith lets out a low whistle. Fortunately for him, the drumline would still be indoors for the majority of that day. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Shiro says with a reluctant grin. “And to you too.”

“For what?” Keith asks.

Shiro makes it to the doorway before turning back to face him with a smile. “The solo, of course.”

And with that, he steps back out into the heat, leaving Keith inside with his heart pounding fast.

 

* * *

 

The next few days pass, long and grueling. The only good thing is that the drumline has spent the majority of their time indoors so far, but most of their time has been spent practicing and shaping up the first years to scratch. Keith would never say it outloud directly, but the first years certainly have a lot of room to grow. Still, one of them has some promising talent for the third snare position, but the rest of them will be delegated to the bassline and cymbals.

Meanwhile, Keith expends all his focus on the solo. Even when they’re doing drills, he finds himself running through it subconsciously in his mind. Every once in a while, Shiro finds him while he’s practicing and sits in for a few minutes before heading back out to the football field behind the school. It ends up being helpful for practice because Keith knows a soloist must be able to play under extreme pressure, and the charming smile and light, warm chuckle of the head drum major makes his heart beat a little too fast, fingers shaking as he fumbles through the part.

On the day of the solo, Kolivan sends Keith and Vrek outside of the back entrance of the band room. The two of them sit by the giant trailer trucks parked within the fence with their quads on their shoulders while they wait for Iverson and Kolivan to prepare. Eventually, the door opens and Keith and Vrek stand up at once as Kolivan steps out before them.

“Vrek. In,” he says, pointing a thumb towards the inside of the band room. Looking at Keith, he adds: “You, stay.”

Keith merely nods his understanding and leans back against the trailer. Satisfied with this response, Kolivan leaves and joins Vrek indoors.

With nothing better to do, Keith pulls his drumsticks out from his back pocket and starts drumming out the solo again on his quads while he waits. After every run-through, he checks his phone for the time, palms sweating from both nerves and the sun.

Not five minutes later, the door opens again and Kolivan walks back outside.

“Keith,” he announces, without batting an eye. “Your turn.”

Fingers tightening around the nylon straps at his chest, Keith takes a deep breath and follows him in.

Once inside, Kolivan makes an immediate right and pulls open the door to the drumline practice room. Folding his tenor drum up to his chest, Keith sidesteps through the threshold.

Taking up a smaller corner of the larger band room, the drumline practice room contains a second piano, a whiteboard at the far wall, and extra chairs and music stands that are idling around in storage. Sitting in a couple of fold-up chairs in a row in front of the piano are Iverson, Coran, Ilun, and to his surprise, Shiro.

Shiro gives him a small, knowing smile before Kolivan walks over to stand by their team of judges. Keith’s heart races at the sight of it. Something about Shiro’s unexpected presence makes him a little more nervous than usual. The instinctive pressure to impress that he tends to feel whenever Shiro is around has kicked in, heightened by the added adrenaline of surprise and natural audition nerves.

“Whenever you’re ready, Keith,” Kolivan tells him with a curt nod.

With an easy twirl of his drumsticks, Keith snaps them down an inch from the drumhead, grip firm. Ready. He kicks the solo off on the third tom, hitting each following one after that, exactly the way he practiced. The sequence comes naturally to him as he goes, as easy as breathing.

When he finishes, Shiro gets up from his seat and walks over to the small, carpeted square step-stage in front of the whiteboard. As he steps onto it, Kolivan speaks again.

“Now, play it again, but with Shiro.”

Shiro readies his arms and hands in position for conducting and smiles down at Keith. There’s a steadiness to Shiro’s gaze that grounds Keith, an assurance of _‘don’t worry, you’ll do great’,_ and the moment they make eye contact, a wave of calmness washes over him. Jaw set, Keith sets his drumsticks back in playing position, a shadow of a smirk on his lips.

He kicks the beat off once more; Shiro picks up the tempo in the first four counts and sets his arms in motion, conducting for the remaining measures of the solo.

It’s short, but by the end of the cadence, the rush Keith receives from their non-melodical duet leaves him a little lightheaded, and he continues the solo drumbeat into their actual show music, finding it difficult to stop now that they’ve started. Shiro seems to feel the same. He continues the triangular cut and jabs his arms make as he conducts, and it’s clear he’s enjoying himself as much as Keith is.

By the next measure, Ilun starts to bob her head along with the rhythm with approving nods. It’s at this point that Iverson stands up and holds his hand up to signal Keith to stop.

Keith ceases his drumming at once as Shiro’s arms fall to his side.

 _Shit_ , did he piss Iverson off? Maybe he should’ve stopped when the solo ended.

But before Keith can gauge whether he did or not, Iverson merely announces, “Thank you, Kogane. You may leave.”

Keith bows his head and goes to pull open the door without another word. When he sneaks a quick glance back, he sees Shiro give him a thumbs up. Smiling to himself, he exits the room.

 

* * *

 

After three more hours of gruesome drilling, the drumline section finds themselves back in the band room. When Keith comes out of the practice room after putting his quads away, Allura accosts him at the doorway.

“So?” she asks. “How did your solo go?”

Keith thinks back to Shiro and how he had smiled at him, multiple times, during that entire session.

“It was… good.”

“Yeah? When do you find out if you get the part?”

Keith looks over to the right entrance of the band room where Iverson, Kolivan, Ilun, and Shiro have just disappeared into the office.

“Dunno. Supposedly the end of today.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, her eyes following his gaze. “You’re going to get the part.”

The rest of the band starts filing in, loudly. Like always, a noisy assortment of brass and saxophone sounds ring out and fill the band room, the sounds mixing and bouncing around all over the place. Keith sees Hunk walking towards the back of the room, and he waves at them as he passes, his tuba in tow. Shifting his eyes over towards the front of the room, Keith spots Lance by the step-stage near the whiteboards with his back to them, animatedly talking, most likely trying to flirt, with a tall, blond flute player he remembers is called Nyma.

With a smirk, he grabs a snare drum with its carrier that’s been sitting in the back corner of the room and puts it on over his head.

“Be right back,” he tells Allura before scuffling away towards Lance, pulling a drumstick out of his back pocket. Despite the fact that there’s no way Lance would hear him over all the noise of the band room, Keith tiptoes the rest of the way up until he’s standing inches behind him.

Nyma’s eyes shift over to him briefly but he puts a finger to his lips to stop her from alerting Lance to his position. She gives him a furtive smile before focusing her eyes back to Lance, who’s too busy swinging his trumpet around to notice anything’s amiss.

It’s now or never.

Raising his arm high above his head, Keith slams the drumstick down hard on the rim of the snare.

_WHAM!_

With a jolt of surprise, Lance yelps and leaps forward onto the step stage as though scalded. Whipping around, he grips his trumpet tightly to his chest, breathing hard as Keith and Nyma burst out laughing.

“Fuck you, Keith!” he exclaims, grabbing the music stand behind him for support. “And here I thought I could actually let my guard down in the band room after I found out you’re not playing snare this year.”

“Your tanline is coming in nicely,” Keith comments, pointing his drumstick at Lance’s neck where the fabric has shifted enough to reveal a hard line between uneven skin tones.

Lance pulls up his collar with a scowl. “Shut up, mullet. You know, _you_ could really use some more sun. You’re as pale as a vampire.”

Keith raises his drumstick above his head threateningly in response, causing Lance to cringe away on instinct with his hands up.

“Don’t you _dare_ do another rimshot in front of me!”

Keith’s smirk grows wider, his drumstick hand still high above his head.

 _“Keith!”_ a booming voice yells from the office.

Keith jumps and nearly drops his stick. Kolivan is standing right outside of Iverson’s office, his eyes trained on them. Keith hurriedly hides his drumsticks behind his back and tries to look innocent.

“Yeah?” he calls back.

Kolivan beckons him over with a finger.

“Ha!” Lance smiles smugly at him and crosses his arms over his trumpet. “That’s what you get,” he scoffs as Keith leaves his side and walks up to their drum instructor, dodging a few clarinet players who had just entered the band room from the right side of the building.

Keith keeps his face impassive as he approaches Kolivan, unsure of how to gauge his tone. After all, Kolivan often sounded a little rough and angry all the time. He can’t possibly be upset about Keith doing rimshots to scare Lance — he’d never scolded them for that kind of thing before — and yet, he often had a way of making Keith feel like he’s done something wrong.

“What is it?” Keith asks when he reaches him.

“After much deliberation between me and the rest of the staff, we’ve come to a decision,” Kolivan says in his usual, deep tone. “You will be starting the show off with the tenor solo.”

“What?” Keith blinks, his heart pounding faster. If he heard and understood that correctly, then that means…

“Congratulations,” Kolivan adds. And with that, he turns around and walks back into the office, shutting the door behind him.

Keith spins around on the spot and his eyes find Allura in the back of the band room. He smiles and gives her a thumbs up and her face lights up with excitement. She mouths something to him, patting herself on the chest then pointing a finger at him.

 _What?_ Keith mouths back, putting a hand to his ear to signify he didn’t understand.

 _I’m proud of you!_ she says, repeating her hand movement along with it. Right when the words finally register in Keith’s mind, her face suddenly changes from excited to sly and she gives him a thumbs up and a wink before ducking behind into the long cubby aisle in the back.

“What…” Keith says out loud, trying to decipher what had just transpired to make Allura behave that way. Just then, a hand claps him hard on the shoulder and he startles, whipping around to see—

“Shiro,” he mutters, feeling all the blood rush to his face at once. “Hi.”

“Congratulations on snagging the solo, Keith!” Shiro says, a wide grin on his face. “Looks like you and I get to start the show off together.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” Keith says, smiling back. “And thanks. Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” he replies, giving Keith’s shoulder a small squeeze. “You’re gonna do great.”

“What’s up, Shiro!” a tall senior girl from the baritone section greets as a group of them passes by. She holds up her hand for a high five and Shiro claps it on her way out, waving them goodbye.

More students pass by. Keith’s stomach clenches as he spots Adam heading their way, presumably for the exit. He doesn’t look at Shiro at all when he stops and says, “Congratulations.”

Keith mumbles a thanks and receives a strained smile in return. When Adam passes, Shiro’s eyes follow the back of his head before he lets out a small exhale and turns back to face Keith.

“So hey,” Shiro says, smiling again. “Matt and a few others from the sax section were thinking of going out for dinner. Wanna join us?”

He waves to the group of them standing by the piano on the other side of the band room to let them know he’s almost ready to go. Keith follows his gaze and sees Matt wave back at the both of them.

“Uh…” he eyes the senior sax guys, Shiro’s original section mates whose names he’s never bothered to remember, then focuses back to Shiro. Being two years younger than Shiro has always made Keith feel like he never has many opportunities to hang out with Shiro one on one. He’s the drum major, he’s beloved by the whole band. It’s natural that Shiro doesn’t have as much time for everyone.

“You should come,” Shiro insists. “I’ll give you a ride home afterwards.”

Keith’s stomach flips at the smile Shiro gives him and — well, he can’t say no to that.

The corner of his lips tug upwards as he nods to Shiro.

“I’m game.”

 

* * *

 

Much like he usually is when he hangs out with the woodwind section, Keith feels out of place at the restaurant, staring into his burger as his bandmates chatter around him. Although he’s in the seat next to Shiro, the drum major is currently engaged in a conversation with a freshman flute player seeking advice for their first year of high school. He listens passively as Shiro asks her what subjects she’s planning on taking and offers her advice with the different teachers she could possibly get. In spite of himself, Keith smiles; Shiro is always so kind and thoughtful and it warms him whenever he gets to see it in action.

The waiter comes by and gives everyone a refill for their drinks. Matt takes this moment to call everyone to attention.

“To the first week of band camp!” he cries out, raising his glass of soda to the table. All around, the members of the woodwind section lift their cups as well, preparing to toast.

“To finally being able to drink coke!” one of them adds.

Beside Keith, Shiro chuckles and raises his own glass of soda.

“Let’s not get too carried away this weekend,” he adds before clinking their cups. “It’s only Friday; we still have a half day tomorrow.”

“Ugh, don’t remind us right now,” a clarinet player to Matt’s left groans.

After a deep gulp, Shiro sets his drink down and gives Matt a meaningful look. “You know what though? It’s not just the end of the first week of band camp, — it’s our _last_ first week of band camp.”

“Damn it, don’t talk like that Shiro!” Matt shouts from across the table, slamming his glass down on the wooden surface. “It’s too early for that sappy bullshit, so cut it out! At this rate, you’re going to be saying that about literally _everything_.”

Shiro shrugs sheepishly. “But it’s the truth.”

“No, no, no, no, no — we’re not going down this path, I refuse!” Matt smacks the sax captain’s shoulder next to him, who Keith knows is also a senior. “Olia, tell Shiro to knock it off.”

Olia blinks up at Matt, then gives Shiro a wistful smile.

“It _is_ sad though,” she says. “We’ve only got one week of band camp left. Forever.”

“Lesson of the day,” Matt announces to the rest of the group. “When you younglings become seniors, _this_ —” he gestures to all of Shiro and Olia — “is how you _do not_ behave.”

Shiro chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t listen to Matt. Once you guys get there, you’ll understand.”

But Keith shrinks in on himself. He already understands. Although he’s got two more years, this is his last week of band camp with Shiro. Forever.

Shiro seems to notice this shift in him, judging by the mild look of concern on his face as he turns to glance at Keith. Keith smiles back in return to reassure him before taking a big bite out of his burger to deflect any further causes for worry. He’s not sure it worked; Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently before letting it drop, unnoticed by everyone else as their attention turns back to Matt, who’s teasing Shiro once more.

 

Keith doesn’t talk much for the rest of the night but he enjoys himself all the same, watching Shiro bond with the others. After another hour, they finally finish paying the bill and start heading out. The woodwind section say their goodbyes, some leaving for their cars, some waiting around for their parents to come pick them up. As promised, Shiro jingles his keys at Keith and they walk out together towards Shiro’s car.

“I’m excited to see the show start coming together next week,” Shiro says as Keith follows him through the parking lot. “Especially now that you’ve got the solo.”

Keith looks up at him, Shiro’s face framed in the dim glow of the streetlights above. It’s a pretty view and his heart aches at the sight of it. He shoves the feeling away to the back of his mind. Shiro may be graduating but there’s no use missing what’s right here in front of him now.

“Yeah,” Keith replies, a small smile spreading across his face. “Me too.”

“How are the freshmen drumline holding up?” Shiro asks. They reach his white civic and Shiro unlocks the doors.

“They’re decent,” Keith shrugs as he pulls open the door and gets in the passenger seat. “Kinda annoying sometimes.”

Shiro laughs as he inserts the key into the ignition. “It’s a law of nature: sophomores band kids are always put off by the freshmen. They’re either too scared and anxious, or too arrogant and overconfident, aren’t they?”

Keith raises an eyebrow as their seatbelts click into place. “Is this your way of saying I fell into the latter group as a first year?”

“Maybe a little,” Shiro says, teasing, and Keith’s stomach does some weird backflip at the smile Shiro’s giving him now. “Don’t worry, we all started out the same.”

Keith’s lips quirk upwards as Shiro pulls out of the parking spot. “Which one were you?”

“Definitely the overconfident one,” Shiro chuckles.

 _Huh,_ that was an interesting one to think about.

“You never told me that,” Keith muttered, thinking back to all the times they’ve hung out during his freshman year.

Shiro laughs. “Well, it’s not something you’d tell the freshmen, is it?”

His eyes shift over to Keith and he gives him a wink. Keith feels his stomach do that weird flip again. He swallows it down and tries to settle the squirming.

“Just wait,” Shiro continues as he comes to a stop at a streetlight. “When you’re the senior drum captain, you’ll be telling your sophomore protegés what annoying freshmen you all were.”

Keith tilts his head, looking up at Shiro. “I’m your protegé?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Shiro smiles, staring straight ahead. The light turns green and he presses the gas. “If only you were a year older. It would’ve been nice if we were on leadership together at the same time.”

And there it is again — another reminder that this is Shiro’s last year.

“Yeah, that would’ve,” Keith says. He imagines him and Shiro standing next to each other at the awards ceremony, marching forward to salute and collect the Altea Royal Regiment’s first place trophy. It would’ve been nice indeed.

His mind shifts back to the conversation Shiro and Matt had had earlier at the table over dinner. After a whole marching season of getting to know Shiro last year, Keith has to agree with Matt: all Shiro’s talks of “last firsts” has begun way too soon.

They talk here and there for the rest of the car ride, reminiscing on about past seniors that have graduated and sharing stories from their first week of band camp, having practiced in different locations for the majority of the time. Keith falls easily into a comfortable rhythm with Shiro, so much that when Shiro eventually pulls into his street, he’s bummed at how short the car ride was.

“See you out on the field tomorrow, Keith,” Shiro says as Keith undoes his seatbelt and opens the door. “Now that your days of air conditioned practice are over. Well — mostly.”

Keith gives an exaggerated sigh and smiles back. “You’re right. Guess it’s time to stop drinking soda.”

Shiro laughs. “Keith? Actually taking the no-soda rule seriously? I can’t wait to see this.”

“Don’t hold your breath over it,” Keith grins.

He steps out of the car and slams the door shut, watching as Shiro drives away, leaving him to his own thoughts.

 _Starting the show with Shiro for the rest of this season…_ Keith thinks as he starts heading up the steps to his house. _Should be fun._

 

* * *

 

The next few days of band camp are gruesome, the heat skyrocketing up to the hundreds at the hottest parts of each afternoon. While the drumline still gets to stay indoors for various parts of the week, Shiro is right: Keith’s air conditioned days of camp are essentially over.

The show tune this year has been adapted from various salsa songs, split into three parts, and begins with a fast, upbeat rhythm that has them all out of breath by the middle of the first section. Exactly like they discussed, Keith does begin his solo meeting Shiro’s eyes. They haven’t gotten to that point yet where they can put the full music to their march, but he loses count of how many times they start the show from the solo and stop before the sixth measure before they’re called to reset (“ _back to the top!”_ ) and start all over again.

He finds he doesn’t mind too much though. It’s an easy excuse to keep staring at Shiro.

There’s a trumpet solo, seized by the transfer student from Galra Tech — Lotor, apparently, which brings their entire section close to the drumline in a series of sets (so that Lotor can get to the microphone placed in front on the 30 yard line). By the middle of their second week, they spend time stuck practicing those drill sets for hours on end, but it ends up being surprisingly fun for Keith, as he gets more opportunities to mess around with Lance, who’s been in a sour mood ever since Lotor got the solo. To add to the fun, Allura also happens to be nearby in this set whenever the color guard are called to join in. It doesn’t take long for inside jokes to form and for the set up to become one of their most fun positions on the field.

Aside from that, the rest of their time spent baking out on the football field are rather uneventful. By Tuesday, a clarinet player faints. By Wednesday, they finally learn the final three sets of the second part of the show. And by Thursday, Coran starts panicking about the show’s first parent performance on Saturday, the last day of band camp.

“We won’t be finished with our entire drill by then, but we can play a good chunk of parts one and two with music!” he squeaks to the entire band before they’re dismissed at the end of the day.

They’re huddled around the podium at the front of the football field, standing at parade rest, legs planted shoulder’s distance apart with their arms folded in.

“Once we get out here tomorrow morning, we’ll need to run through the squiggly-set again before we go for a full run through of the show from beginning to everything we know so far! It’ll be our first time, so do make sure you hydrate over your meal! No sodas! You hear me?”

“Yessir!” the band collectively replies.

“Good,” Coran nods before clapping his hands together and turning to Shiro. “Shiro?”

Their drum major straightens up on the podium and clasps his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest. Shiro takes a deep breath and shouts, “Band ten hut!”

The band snaps their feet together, elbows out, into attention.

“Band — dismissed!”

“Thank you, sir!”

They disband, instruments lowering across the sea of heads like waves coming down. Keith folds his quads up against his own chest as he watches Shiro hop down from the podium from the corner of his eye. When Shiro straightens up, his head turns and Keith looks away at once, not wanting to be caught staring. He hurries forward to Ilun’s side and matches her pace off the football field.

He doesn’t make it far off the grass when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turns around, and finds himself face to face with Shiro.

“Hey,” Shiro says, smiling.

“Hi,” Keith replies, heart in his throat.

“A couple of us, Ilun and Vrek included, wanted to catch a movie tonight. Want to come?”

The corners of Keith’s lips curl up.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

As promised, when the band shows up for practice the next day, Iverson and Coran make them warm up, run through a few sets, then do a full run through of everything they know so far from beginning to end, without music. After a short water break, they do another full run through with the music added. Coran gives them an optimistic pep talk before sending them off to lunch and Iverson promises to amp up the intensity of their practice when they get back onto the field.

Once dismissed, Keith walks off the field with his quads folded up to retrieve his water jug and takes a giant swig from it. When he lowers his blue Rubbermaid gallon, he finds Allura standing in front of him, wearing a small smirk on her face.

“So how was the movie last night?” she asks, peering at him over his water.

Keith twists his lips and takes another generous drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grips his jug by the handle and starts walking towards the school, knowing Allura will follow.

“Nothing happened,” he says curtly.

“Oh, please,” Allura scoffs. “You can tell me, you know.”

“What?” Keith asks, eyebrow raised. “Nothing did.”

His mind wanders back to the cool, dark room of the theater, sitting next to Shiro with half the woodwind section surrounding them. Matt’s freshman sister Katie (or “Pidge,” or so they call her), the sole piccolo player of the band, had been taking loud sips from a giant slurpee behind them while Matt laughed next to her. And then there were the honorary brass folk — Lance and Hunk — who sat nearby and spoke in loud whispers throughout the movie, ensuring the least romantic setting for a night ever.

There was a moment though when Shiro had leaned over towards Keith to whisper something in his ear. It was some commentary about the film, but Keith hadn’t been able focus on what he was saying at all over the tingles that shot down his spine when Shiro’s breath tickled his ears. So while that was certainly _something_ , it hardly constituted as an event he’d openly share with Allura.

“Are you sure? You look red,” Allura points out with a light giggle. “And I don’t think it’s from the sun.”

“ _Yes, I’m sure,_ ” Keith snipes, looking away from her. “How can you expect my answer to _not_ be nothing when half the woodwind section was there?”

Allura purses her lips. “It never stopped Mallory and Kevin, or — you know — half the couples in this band actually.” She pauses to tap her chin in thought. “Huh. So there _is_ a reason why there seems to be a universal agreement that bandos are described as horny.”

Keith thinks back to when the couple Allura mentioned first got together his freshman year. While Keith doesn’t make it his business to care about the elaborate social intricacies that go on around him, there are always a few events from the rumor mill that literally cannot be unknown. According to common knowledge, the tuba player and flautist in question had made out on the bus ride after their first competition last year and had sex in one of the practice rooms. Keith scowls at Allura’s implications.

“We’re not — he’s too — _I’m_ not like that!” he splutters, swinging his water jug at her.

She dodges it with a laugh and shoves him by the shoulder. “I’m not telling you to go down the same path as them! But we are a marching band. There isn’t going to be a lot of privacy. You’ll have to make do wherever you can.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at her and thinks back to the day before when they were idling by in the one set before the trumpet solo with Lotor. Allura, who had been wearing spaghetti strap tops to practice as she usually did during summer band practice, had asked Lotor for help in reapplying sunscreen on her back while they were waiting for Iverson to finish yelling at the flute and saxophone players on the other side of the field to get their shit together. There had been an excessive amount of touching, from both parties.

Keith almost brings it up to pin something back at her but then desists. Besides being the bigger man, Keith frankly doesn’t want to get involved. As close friends as he and Allura are, it’s not his business. Instead, he shrugs and focuses back on the topic of Shiro.

“I don’t think he feels the same anyways,” he mutters under his breath just as they reach the band room.

“Don’t be so sure,” Allura says as she opens the door for him. Keith shuffles sideways through the door so that his quads will fit through the frame, Allura following shortly after. Once the two of them finish putting their stuff away, they meet back in the center of the band room before heading out to lunch.

They barely make it just outside the bounds of school when Allura starts asking the hard questions.

“So?” she demands.

Keith raises an eyebrow at her, frowning. “So, what?”

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

“Allura, he’s only been single for like three months, can you lay off?”

They reach the sidewalk on the other side and continue their trek towards the taco place down the street.

Allura lets out a long exhale.

“Well, it’s just — how do I phrase this…” she trails off, contemplative. Keith waits patiently for her to collect her thoughts.

“There’s always been a strange energy whenever you three are in a room together,” she finally says.

“ _What?_ ” Keith splutters. “‘Strange energy?’ What do you mean?”

He thinks back to their last recent encounter when Adam congratulated him on getting the solo. Keith supposes it _had_ been weird, but he’d never been surprised by anyone’s cold attitude towards him. If anybody gave off the vibe that they were put off by him, Keith usually figures it can all be attributed to his own prickly nature, not theirs. In fact, he’s often _more_ surprised when people are open and friendly towards him. Like Shiro is.

“Most people don’t get along with me,” he adds with a shrug.

“It isn’t that,” Allura shakes her head. “Even I was put off by you at first, so I understand what that’s like.”

Keith snorts. “Your support means a lot to me too.”

“But with Adam,” she asserts, talking over him. “It’s different. You can tell he almost resents you for being Shiro’s favorite.”

“I’m Shiro’s favorite?!” Keith asks.

“ _That’s_ the part you’re freaking out about?” Allura rolls her eyes. “Please, Keith. It is obvious to anyone from the outside looking in. Ever since Ulaz took you under his wing last year when he was the senior drum captain and introduced you to Shiro as a musician with budding potential.”

Keith considers this for a moment. When he first met Shiro last year during Shiro’s first year as the head drum major, he was indeed introduced as “Ulaz’s little freshman snarist.” He hadn’t given much thought to it then, as he wasn’t really getting along with anyone in the band. Ulaz had seen potential in him and decided to take it upon himself to nurture it. Shiro, despite becoming the drum major, always held the highest respect for Ulaz, and so… was nice to Keith. Adam was always just… _there_.

But that didn’t necessarily _mean_ anything.

“How can you tell?” Keith asks as they approach the taco stand.

“Call it intuition,” Allura replies before stepping up to order four different types of tacos and a gigantic cup of water.

Keith orders a burrito and soda.

“Cheater,” Allura mutters, glaring at the coca cola bubbles spilling over Keith’s cup.

“No, seriously. Explain it,” he nudges her as they grab their plates and drinks and head over to a nearby table.

“Well…” she twists her lip in thought. They take a seat on the shady side of the bench and start eating. “I don’t know. I suppose he sounds very tight lipped and short whenever you’re around. Talks a little too politely to you…” she trails off, gesturing helplessly. “I don’t know! Just little things. It’s like he was secretly jealous of any time and attention Shiro gives to you.”

“Why would he be jealous?” Keith asks, genuinely confused. _He’s_ the one who was dating Shiro after all.

“I don’t know,” she replies, picking up her first taco and holding it steady in her hands. “Don’t ask me to fathom the inner workings of an adolescent male.”

“He’s older than you,” Keith says.

“Still an adolescent male,” she waves the comment off. “Anyway, he wouldn’t behave that way if there wasn’t something _there_ between you and Shiro.”

“What’s there?”

Allura shrugs. “I guess you’d have to find out. If only you could just work up the courage.”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Keith mutters as he peels back the foil to unsheathe his burrito.

Allura sighs. “But really, Keith, the thing is, I think you are fully capable of telling Shiro how you feel. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been the kind of person who would back down in the wake of something scary.”

“You haven’t known me _that_ long…” Keith grumbles before biting into his burrito.

“Two years is pretty long,” she says. “Especially at this age and time.”

“That’s also how long Adam and Shiro dated,” he points out.

“ _The point is_ ,” she cuts across through gritted teeth, “It’s long enough for me to know this: you never let anything intimidate you.” She gestures at his soda. “Case in point. It’s something I’ve always envied about you.”

“Well — this is different,” Keith says through a mouth full of food.

Allura raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Keith swallows and opens his mouth to retort, then drops his gaze down to his cup of coke. It’s true that he doesn’t often back down from things — he drinks soda during marching season even though the teachers harshly scold them for doing so, bangs his drumsticks on every surface he can find even outside of the band room, nearly once broke the spit valve of James’s trumpet their freshmen year because James was pissing him off. As Allura had put it, he doesn’t often let anything intimidate him just because they’re “scary.” But then he thinks of Shiro and his kind smile, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he sees Keith, and how, if Keith isn’t careful, he could lose them in a heartbeat. He could lose it all — utterly and completely.

Maybe Allura’s not quite right when she essentially called him the opposite of a coward. Maybe it’s just that nothing’s ever been this scary to him before.

Eventually, Keith just shrugs as though it isn’t a big emotional weight on his shoulder.

“It just is.”

Allura eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything further. Keith takes a huge bite of his burrito and chomps on it grumpily.

“Just…” she sighs again. “Just think about it.”

Avoiding her eyes, Keith continues to eat his lunch.

 

* * *

 

Although Keith has tried his best to shove Allura’s suggestion to tell Shiro how he feels to the back of his mind, throughout the last few days of band camp, he finds that his imagination keeps getting the better of him.

It starts with a series of dreams, each of which involve some alternate universe in which Keith has already told Shiro how he feels and they are either happily dating or awkwardly not talking anymore. And while the former always draws him to wake with a smile on his lips, filling him with a burning desire to see this reality happen, the latter leaves him aching, halting any hopes and aspirations to confess anything to Shiro. No. It isn’t worth the pain and heartache of even the possibility of losing the friendship.

But sometimes, Keith still dares to imagine more.

After another long and tortuous week of being baked under the sweltering sun, the band finally finds themselves staring at this year’s last day of band camp. When Keith bumps into Shiro that morning as they head out onto the field, he finds a wistful but smiling Shiro walking slower than usual, taking his time to appreciate the mundane experience of walking the same old path behind the gym.

“It’s just like any other last day of band camp,” Matt says from next to him as he catches the bittersweet look in Shiro’s eyes upon reaching the football field. “Don’t you go getting sentimental on me today.”

“I’ll try to keep it under wraps then,” Shiro chuckles as Matt slaps him on the back before joining the rest of the clarinet section on the 30 yard line.

“It _is_ sad,” Keith agrees, twirling his drumsticks around his fingers as they stop in front of the podium. In an attempt to bring some positive light into all of this, he adds: “But that’s only one part of it, isn’t it?”

And indeed, despite the finality of this whole “last-lasts” experiences, Shiro looks far from being subdued.

His lips quirks upwards as he grins down at Keith. “Yeah. It is.”

Keith looks up at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue talking about these deeper, complex feelings, but Shiro merely places a hand on his shoulder and says, “I would tell you to kick ass today, Keith, but it’s something you always do anyways, so—”

Keith swears he feels an electric spark course through his veins from the point of contact at these words and has to force himself to focus and stay in the moment.

“—just keep doing you, and we’ll be grand.”

And with one last smile, Shiro turns around and climbs the ladder up onto the podium, leaving Keith to reconsider, not for the first time this week, Allura’s crazy idea to tell Shiro how he feels.

 

The morning practice ends up being a disaster. What with the pressure of finishing their last day of band camp well and the parent performance coming up that evening, Iverson has taken his post all the way up on top of the thirty foot tall platform at the front of the football field and has been grilling them hard.

“Back to the top!” he yells for the umpteenth time after scolding the trumpet section for rushing too fast, _again._ Immediately following their stretches and warmups, they’ve been trying to run through the show from the very beginning but the band still hasn’t even made it to the end of what they know yet.

A collective groan from the field rises up, causing Iverson to scold them again.

“No complaints,” he announces sternly. “If I hear another whine out of any of you, you’re all dropping down and giving me fifteen!”

Keith knows its tough love, but it doesn’t comfort him from the unpleasant slickness from the sweat pouring down his back, pooling especially where the nylon straps cling to his chest. At least the flute players only have to carry a stick. Luckily, the amount of movement he has to reset from the last section they were working on is only one yard line away.

For the umpteenth time, Keith looks up and makes eye contact with Shiro. For the umpteenth time, Keith kicks off the show with the solo. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

They run through the entire section of what they know again and again and again, Iverson’s threat of pushups effective seeing as nobody dared to grumble. After a quick five minute water break, Keith checks the watch on Ilun’s wrist as they line back up in formation for the start of the show _again._

_11:23 AM._

There’s no way it’s not noon yet. The sun is not quite directly above them but Keith swears they’ve been out here for _hours._

Finally, at long last, they run through the show all the way through with no significant mistakes or blaring errors — or at least, nothing that isn’t inexcusable given how early they still are in the game. Keith’s eyes are drawn to Shiro the moment they come to the end and he receives a surge of affection in seeing the sheer pride and joy reflected back in Shiro’s face. The entire band remains still after coming to their stop, awaiting further instructions.

Iverson grabs the microphone next to him and stares down at the band.

“Well. That was certainly passable,” he says into the mic. “Tubas: during the section with the massive rotation set, you have been overpowering the woodwind section. We know it’s not the easiest for them to be as loud the brass, but you lot were playing _too loud_.

“As for the flute section: at the end of this first section when you are all in the S-bend, _control your Piccolo!_ ” he yells, squinting down at Pidge, who smiles sheepishly, her buck teeth glinting in the sun. “We know you’re small but don’t underestimate your screech. We don’t want your parents’ ears to bleed tonight. It’s a lucky thing you’re our only one!”

The band holds their breath as they wait for sweet dismissal. There’s still a chance Iverson might make them run through one more section before lunch.

Iverson stays silent for a long minute before finally taking a deep breath and speaking into the mic. “Alright. When we get back—” Keith lets out an exhale as the rest of the band slump their shoulders in relief — “from lunch, we’ll run the windmill set again. And tubas: lower your volume! It’s a _forte_ section, not _forte fortissimo_ for crying out loud!”

Finally, he sets down the mic and nods at Shiro. Shiro turns to face the rest of the band and gives them a thumbs up.

Together, the band breaks with cries of victory and sighs of relief, all hundred fifty of them walking off the field for water.

Shiro jumps down from the drum major podium as Keith walks up to fetch the water jug he strategically placed beneath it.

“Good play today, Keith,” Shiro compliments as Keith bends forward to pick up his water. He takes a long swig from it, not bothering to control the torrent of water from spilling from the sides of his mouth. The cold fluid soothes him as it runs down his shirt; he only has to make sure that no drops splash onto his quads.

“Thanks, Shiro,” he grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You too.”

“The show may not be perfect yet but I think we’re gonna kill it this evening,” Shiro smiles back, holding out a fist. Keith bumps it with his own and feels the butterflies explode inside his stomach.

“Yeah,” he agrees, following Shiro back towards campus grounds. Perhaps if Keith hung around all the way up until they reached the band room, Shiro would invite him out to lunch.

“Do you have a hat, by the way?” Shiro asks, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Your face looks a little burnt. You could always borrow one of my old ones. It’s important to keep your skin protected as best as you can out there.”

Keith feels his face grow even hotter and looks away. He has no doubt that his face is sunburnt, but to have Shiro point it out is a whole other thing.

“No, I don’t have one,” he mumbles. “I’ve been using sunscreen though.”

“You mean you’ve been using _my_ sunscreen,” says a voice from behind them. Keith turns around and sees Allura walking up towards them carrying a flag and saber. With a knowing smile, she speeds up and passes them by, and Keith watches as she runs up to catch up with Lotor up ahead.

_Interesting._

Shiro chuckles at the exchange. “Well, I know band camp is essentially over, but if you’d like, you can have one of mine. I think I have two spare ones in my trunk. We can go get it now.”

Excitement licks the insides of Keith’s belly. That’s one step closer to being invited to lunch. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“Then afterwards, if you want,” Shiro continues, and Keith’s stomach tightens in anticipation. “I was going to get Halal Guys for lunch. You can come with me if you’d like.”

Keith grins. “I’d love to.”

When they arrive at the band room, after relishing in the cool air conditioning that washes over them upon entrance, Shiro tells him he’ll wait by the front of the band room while Keith puts his drum set away.

Unable to contain his eagerness, Keith nods and makes a beeline for the back of the room, lifting the quads off his shoulders as he rushes to put his things away. _He’s going to lunch with Shiro, he’s going to lunch with Shiro, he’s going to lunch with Shiro!_

Allura’s suggestion from before about telling Shiro how he feels weighs on his mind as he picks up his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. If all goes well at lunch… and if the post parent performance vibes are ideal… maybe Keith would get a clearer clue about where he and Shiro stand.

With this in mind, he bounds back out from the back of the bandroom, a new spring in his step. He doesn’t make it past the middle of the room when the sight that greets him at the far end of the bandroom’s exit stops him in his tracks.

There stands Shiro in front of Iverson’s office, arms folded and face downwards cast, deeply engrossed in a conversation with Adam.

Keith feels the bottom of his stomach fall away. Should he interrupt them? It feels like a pretty serious conversation, but then again, Shiro did say to meet him at the front of the bandroom.

Eventually, Keith decides to approach cautiously. Taking a deep breath then exhaling, he walks forward towards the two of them, slowing down when he gets closer into Shiro’s line of sight.

When Shiro spots him, he lifts his head and gives him a meaningful look over Adam’s shoulder, causing Adam to turn around and search for the source of Shiro’s distraction. When he spots Keith, his eyes narrow, not drastically, but just enough for Keith to notice.

“Hold on a minute,” Keith hears Shiro mutter under his breath before stepping out towards Keith.

“Hey,” Shiro says, placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder and looking — to Keith’s disappointment — apologetic. “Sorry. I know I said I’d take you to lunch but we’re gonna have to raincheck.”

“Oh,” Keith replies, trying not to sound as hollow as he feels. “That’s fine. I understand.”

“I’ll bring you a hat when I get back for afternoon practice, alright?” Shiro promises with a smile. “Gotta make sure you protect that face of yours.”

Keith’s stomach does a backflip. _‘That face of yours.’_

He swallows. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Enjoy.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Shiro says. Then, after patting his shoulder a few times, he drops his arm and turns back to Adam. Shiro gives a sharp jerk of his head at the door and Adam nods. Adam shoots Keith one last tense, burning look before pushing open the door and disappearing out into the sun. Shiro waves goodbye, then follows suit, leaving Keith standing in front of Iverson’s office alone.

 _It’s just one lunch outing,_ Keith tells himself as he turns away from the door. … _With your ex. Looking all serious._

They _had_ dated for two years. Some people don’t move on that fast. Allura was wrong.

But she did seem to be right about one thing: there was weird tension in the air with Adam, and it maybe wasn’t just because of Keith’s own prickly nature.

Still, he doesn’t know what to do with that information.

Keith glances around the band room, his eyes searching for Allura. He’s curious what she’d make of this new development, but she is nowhere to be found. Pursing his lips, he pulls out his phone and shoots her a text.

_where r u?_

A few seconds later, his phone buzzes.

_I left for lunch already. Why?_

He tries to recall the last time he saw her and recollects that it had not been more than ten minutes ago, when she had walked on ahead of him. With Lotor.

Oh. That explains it.

 _nvm,_ he replies to her before stuffing his phone back into his pocket. He supposes he can just get tacos again.

Just then, he hears a scuffle of feet and a deep breath behind him — and Keith realizes what’s happening before he can properly react.

A loud cry of a trumpet blasts in his ears. He whips around, mind ringing with the noise reverberating in his head as he pulls his drumsticks from his back pocket out in front of him by instinct.

Lance is howling with laughter, holding his trumpet to his chest, victorious.

“I could hear you behind me,” Keith snarls.

“You still jumped,” Lance says breathlessly, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, man. That was incredibly satisfying. Keith: 1, Lance: 1!”

“That was your first time trying to scare me,” Keith points out with a scowl.

Lance upturns his nose. “So? What’s your point?”

“So it’s more like Lance: 1, Keith: 5,” Keith replies, a smirk starting to form on his lips.

“Get outta here!” Lance shouts, frustrated. The sight makes Keith’s smirk curl even more. “You’re the worst.”

“Hate to interrupt,” comes Hunk’s voice, who steps up behind Lance and places an elbow on the trumpet player’s shoulder. “But we only have about forty five minutes of lunch now and I was promised some bomb-ass pizza. Are we ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute to put my trumpet away,” Lance says, shrugging Hunk off his shoulder. He heads for the back of the band room, leaving Keith alone with Hunk.

Hunk breaks the silence first. “You got lunch plans, Keith?”

Keith mind lingers again on the apologetic expression on Shiro’s face as he left with Adam. “Nope.”

“Wanna get pizza with us?” Hunk asks just as Pidge sidles up to them, bangs sticking to her sunburnt cheeks. “Allura can come, too.”

“Are we doing this or not?” she says. Her eyes land on Keith and she grins. “Oh, is our favorite drummer joining us?”

“Allura’s already out to lunch,” Keith explains.

“Aw, too bad for Lance,” Hunk whispers in an undertone to Pidge, who snickers. Keith decides then that it’s best not to mention who she probably went to lunch with.

“I’ll come,” he concludes.

“Nice,” Pidge nods approvingly. Once Lance rejoins them, she turns to him and asks, “You ready for garlic knots?”

“I was born ready!” he replies. “Let’s go, I’m driving.”

Keith follows them and tries not to get too wrapped up in thoughts about what Shiro and Adam might be talking about. The pizza ends up being as good as Hunk promised and between Pidge and Lance’s bickering and Hunk’s insightful ode to his slice of chicken pesto toppings, Keith can’t say that their last lunch of band camp was a complete loss.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Shiro brings Keith one of his old hats for him after lunch. Unlike Shiro’s current white one, this one is black with a red underbill. Keith gives him a mumbled thanks before walking off onto the football field and donning the cap on.

Once he’s settled in his place for the set they’re working on, Keith glances back at Shiro, who’s now standing on the podium with his arms outstretched. It could just be his imagination, but Keith swears Shiro doesn’t look quite as happy coming back to practice as he did leaving it earlier. He turns his head towards the mellophone section and sees that Adam appears subdued as well.

And it kills him to want to know what transpired between them at lunch. Did one of them try to mend things? Are they currently in limbo? Where do they stand? Curiosity burns low in his stomach, and unbidden with it, a small twinge of guilt.

_It’s not his business anyways._

The rest of practice, albeit much shorter, passes just as grueling as the first half of the day, if not worse, now that the sun is directly above them, as harsh as ever. Iverson drills them again and again and again, running and rerunning sets over and over until the music paired with their feet are burned into the forefront of their minds.

At a quarter past two, Iverson gathers them in early.

“What time do we find ourselves on the stadium field?” he asks them from his spot high up on the thirty foot platform.

“Three o’clock, sir!” the band replies.

“Which means what time will you all show up?”

“Two forty five, sir!”

“You have exactly thirty minutes to rehydrate yourselves and cool off before your folks start showing up,” Iverson continues. “The beach bonfire barbeque party afterwards will start at six. You all best make sure you _earn_ that steak in your performance this afternoon. Don’t be late. See you all on the other field in thirty. Break!”

The band disperses and Iverson starts his descent back down to ground level.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind Keith. He turns around to see Allura, water jug and a stack of rifles in tow. “You have a hat.”

Keith grabs his own water and walks with her back towards the school grounds.

“Yeah.” What of it?

“Isn’t it from Shiro? You don’t seem too happy about it,” she frowns. “Does this have something to do with you texting me during lunch?”

“Shiro was gonna give me the hat and take me to lunch, but then something came up,” he explains.

Allura turns back to glance at the brass section behind them.

“I saw Shiro and Adam in the parking lot together coming back from lunch,” she mutters to Keith under her breath. Keith takes a furtive peek back along with her. Just then, Lance, who’s been walking in front of Adam, catches her eye and winks. At this, Allura whips her head back to face front and sighs.

“Anyways,” she coughs. “They didn’t look too happy.”

Keith tilts his head towards her so he can see her expression better. “Oh. You think?”

“Yes, well, it would appear so,” she shrugs. “It means that whatever transpired at lunch, they did not get back together.”

“Hm. I see.”

The speculation leaves Keith quiet and fiddling with his drumsticks in his hands, wondering what _had_ transpired at lunch, if not that.

The thirty minutes they have to rest seems to pass by in no time. Before they know it, the band finds themselves back outside on the stadium field on the other side of campus.

They call it the stadium field, but the truth is, it isn’t quite as large as the football field at other schools, such as Galra Tech. There are stands for an audience to sit in, but not for large crowds, and a standard high school track wraps around the entirety of its perimeter. It’s one of the many reasons the band can’t use it for their regular practices. It’s the only field that gets shared among the other teams at their school.

When Keith and Allura arrive, the stands are filling with people, parents and friends filing up to their seats, all buzzing with excitement. Keith glances up and sees his own mother sitting by herself at the top left corner wearing a pair of sunglasses. When their eyes meet, she gives a nod of acknowledgment and he turns his head away, smiling.

While Iverson leads the band through some marching drills, Kolivan gathers the drumline off to the far corner of the field for their own set of warm ups. After ten minutes of this, Iverson gives them the instruction to take their starting positions on the field.

Keith walks to the center facing the podium and stands in his place. He hears the sound of Coran tapping the mike and looks up as their associate band director kicks off his announcement.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen! Welcome welcome welcome to your children’s first live performance of the year! After two weeks out in the sun, your folks have been working and sweating hard to learn the field show! This year, our show’s theme is — that’s right! — _salsa._ So expect upbeat, vivid rhythms and Latin pop vibes! _Que rica!_ With the opening sequence starting off at a hundred and seventy six beats per second, these kids have been marching their feet off! Really, it’s been quite impressive how they’ve managed to…”

Keith shifts his gaze over to Shiro, only half-listening to Coran’s spiel. Shiro catches his eye and gives him a subtle thumbs up and a smile. _They didn’t look too happy,_ Allura’s voice comes back to him as Keith grins back. Well, if Shiro’s smiling at him and looking content now, that has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“… can’t thank you all enough for your support to your children. And so, without further ado, may I present for the first time: _Déjame Soñar!_ ”

Keith readies his drumsticks over his quads and stares across the field directly at Shiro’s eyes.

 _Ready?_ they ask.

With his heart beating loudly in his chest, Keith gives him a small smirk and kicks off on the first note.

 

* * *

 

The performance doesn’t go perfectly, but it goes better than expected. During the woodwinds’ march across the fifty yard line, Keith witnesses a freshman clarinet player next to Matt lose his shoe on the way to the other side of the field. The kid had almost wanted to go back for it, but Matt had reached out and tugged on his shirt to keep it moving. Also, at one point, the trumpet section began to rush like no other, pulling half the band with it. It had taken all of the drumline and Shiro’s stubborn conducting to bring the whole melody back to the proper tempo. By the end of the show the band had been wiped completely out of breath.

And to think their parent performance had only been a little more than the first third of the entire show.

Krolia finds him afterwards. Keith reaches her just as she is stepping down from the stands.

“So. Drum solo, huh?” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Hi, mom,” Keith smiles, walking straight into her outstretched arms.

“Do you need a ride to the beach?” she asks once he pulls away.

Keith shakes his head. “I think I can catch one with Allura or…”

Beside him, Shiro looms into view.

“Hey, Keith,” he says before giving a polite nod to his mom. “Hello, Mrs. Kogane.”

“Shiro,” Krolia acknowledges. “It’s good to see you. Your last year as drum major, huh?”

“Indeed it is,” Shiro says with a sad chuckle. “But hopefully not for long. I’ve been thinking for a while now about applying to some universities with good marching bands, maybe dabble a bit in Drum Corps next summer even. So far, the prospects are looking pretty good.”

“Sounds great,” Krolia nods. “Good luck with everything. I’m sure you’ll go far.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Kogane,” Shiro beams. Then, turning to Keith, he adds, “Sorry to interrupt but I just had a quick question: we have one more spot left in our car for the beach. Would you like to ride with us?”

 _He’s asking_ me _?,_ Keith thinks, slightly dazed. Even though he had gone to lunch with Adam, at the end of band camp, at the end of all things, he’s still here, seeking out Keith. It has to mean something, right? Keith is afraid to hope.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, feeling the butterflies flutter in his stomach again.

“Great, take your time,” Shiro says with a polite nod at Krolia. “And meet us out in the parking lot whenever you’re ready.”

Keith returns his wave with a smile. “Got it. Be there soon.”

“So he’s really serious about marching band,” Krolia notes as her eyes follow Shiro’s retreating figure.

“Yeah, he’s really dedicated,” Keith affirms, staring after Shiro as well. “And a talented musician.”

“Hmm. Nice.”

Something about her voice makes Keith look back at his mom. Her eyes are no longer on Shiro and Keith can see now that she’s been studying his expression carefully instead. Her gaze makes him suddenly feel exposed, caught in a quiet moment of vulnerability.

“What?” he frowns, trying his best not to look as flustered as he feels.

“Nothing,” she replies, though Keith swears he catches a shadow of a smile before her expression shifts back to neutral. “Go have fun with your friends, Keith.” She claps him on the shoulder. “And congratulations on the drum solo. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, mom,” he grins before turning to leave.

“Be back by eleven, or text me if otherwise,” she calls out after him.

Keith waves a hand in the air to show that he’s heard her.

 _don’t need a ride to the beach,_ he texts Allura as he heads towards the parking lot.

His phone buzzes almost immediately after he sends it.

_no? are you sure?_

_you’re still coming, right?_

Keith begins to craft a response: _yea, going with sh—_ before backspacing and erasing it all. He doesn’t want to deal with the conversation he knows will follow. Waving Allura away to the back of his mind, he clicks his phone into sleep mode and pockets it.

Once in the parking lot, he finds Shiro, Olia, and Matt holding hands with Nina, a girl from the marimba section. They each take turns greeting Keith before getting in Shiro’s car.

It’s a twenty minute drive to get to the beach. The best part of the ride happens in the last ten minutes of it, when they’re driving along the coast. Sitting by the right side window, Keith gazes out at the ocean shimmering beneath the summer sun, still high up above the waters despite the waning afternoon. Even with the bright horizon, the palm trees tickling with the light breeze, the golden glow of the early evening sun only serves to remind Keith that their summer — Shiro’s last band camp summer — is truly coming to an end.

“I’m so ready to catch some waves,” Matt announces as they pull into the beach’s parking lot. “Ilun promised she’d teach me to surf, _finally_.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Shiro chuckles, rolling down his window upon approaching the parking kiosk. “Does anyone have an extra five by the way?”

“I got it,” Keith asserts, scrounging around his pocket for some cash. He pulls out a couple one dollar bills and hands them to Shiro.

“Here’s a bit more,” Matt offers, holding out a five.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the money from them both and adding it to his own stash. “That should do.”

Once they’ve paid and parked, the group makes their way onto the beach.

With most of the band here, Iverson and Coran had reserved two bonfires for their area to hang out in. Upon arriving, Keith sees that most of his classmates are already scattered all across the sand. Some have already started up a game of beach volleyball while others are building sandcastles or feasting on the barbeque provided for them by volunteer band parents.

“Hey you!”

Keith hears Allura’s voice before a strong arm hooks around his neck and pulls him in.

“Made it out here just fine, I see,” she whispers in his ear.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Love you too, friend,” Allura beams brightly at him.

“You’re one to talk,” Keith mutters as he shifts his gaze over to Lotor, who’s grabbing a drink from one of the coolers, and whom Keith knows she’s arrived with.

Allura follows his line of sight and lets go of Keith immediately, twiddling her thumbs and suddenly unable to look him in the eye.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she coughs as she slips away towards the bonfire. Keith merely stares after her with a raised eyebrow. He watches as Allura grabs a corn cob from the grill, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

_Yeah, that’s what I thought._

Despite having arrived here with Shiro, it isn’t long before Shiro is dragged away by some members of the sax section to go grab food and play games. Figuring it would be of no use to follow him around like a sad puppy, Keith busies himself with grabbing a hot dog and a can of Coke on his own. Unfortunately, as Keith hadn’t been paying attention to which group is standing near the bonfire when he goes, he receives an unpleasant surprise when he soon finds himself being ambushed by Lance.

“Yo, mullet!” he calls out, sidling up to throw an arm around him. “Keith, my man. Just the guy I wanted to see.”

Keith snorts. “I doubt that. You've never said that to me before.”

“What?” Lance exclaims in an almost convincing tone of surprise. “C’mon, we’re buddies, Keith. Always have been. Sure, there’s the little ribbing and your stupid surprise rim shots here and there, but even you’d have to admit—”

“What do you want, Lance?” Keith deadpans.

Lance sighs. “Is me being nice really so hard to believe that it’s always gotta mean I’ve got some—”

“ _Lance_.”

“Okay, okay!” he concedes. “I just wanted to ask: what’s Allura’s deal?”

“What?” Keith asks, genuinely thrown off guard by this. It’s no secret that Lance has always shown interest in Allura but Keith can’t understand why Lance would come to him for this. How would _he_ know about Allura’s deal? He expresses just as much.

“How should I know?”

Lance narrows his eyes at him, his lips pursed. “Aren’t you like, her best friend? Or something?”

“Well — sure, I guess,” Keith reasons. He doesn’t really think about the meaning of _best friend_ very much, but he supposes that if Lance is suggesting that they are close friends, then yes, that’s a given. “What’s your point?”

“So shouldn’t you know what her deal is better than the rest of us?”

“It’s not really… I don’t—”

“For example, what’s her deal with Lotor?” Lance asks, cutting straight to the chase.

Keith shrugs, looking over at Allura and Lotor now, laughing together over their plates of tri-tip and pizza. “You’re seeing the same thing I’m seeing.”

“Are we though?” Lance presses. “She hasn’t said anything to you about this? And you haven’t asked?”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Why would I ask? It’s just as much my business as it is yours. That is to say: none at all.”

“I don’t understand you,” Lance says, crossing his arms. “A beautiful girl like Allura is your best friend and you don’t pay any attention to this? Are you crazy? And what’s _your_ deal with her anyways?”

Keith frowns. He thought it had always been pretty obvious that he’s… but then again, Lance can be really dense about some things.

“Dunno. Maybe I am.”

“Am what? Dating Allura?!”

“Crazy, I mean.” Keith rolls his eyes. This conversation is ridiculous. “I don’t concern myself with Allura’s personal business and I don’t intend to.”

“But surely you can see that something is going on,” he gestures with his gaze again towards Allura and Lotor.

“Sure?” Keith shrugs. Someone would have to be blind _not_ to see it, but it didn’t mean Keith needed to know all the details.

Lance groans and leans an elbow on Keith’s shoulder. “Ugh. You’re useless.”

“Will you shut up and let me eat my hot dog now?” Keith gripes, shrugging Lance off of him.

Lance crosses his arms, shaking his head. “Man. How did someone as rude as you land such a classy, gorgeous babe as a best friend?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Probably by not being a flirtatious idiot.”

Lance’s mouth falls open and Keith takes this as his queue to leave, hoping to make his escape before Lance can recover enough from the insult to throw one back. Smirking, he turns and is just about to take a bite out of his hot dog when he bumps his shoulder into something solid mid-turn.

Swaying to rebalance himself, Keith steadies his weight on his feet and lifts his head so he can properly see what he’s just run into.

“Hey, Keith.”

Keith feels all the air leave his lungs at once. The _something solid_ he’s just bumped into turns out to be Shiro’s chest.

“Hi,” he breathes out.

“I was looking for you,” Shiro says. He holds up his plate of barbeque meat and grins. “Since I flaked on lunch, would you wanna hang out with me out on the jetty?”

Keith’s been to this beach enough times to know which one he’s referring to. A long jut of seaworn rocks between lifeguard stations 6 and 7 extending out into the ocean. In the daytime, it’s often swarming with children trying to get a closer look at the microscopic marine life hiding within the cracks. Now, as Keith looks over at it, the jetty is mostly bare, its outline backlit with gold from the setting sun. Besides a few curious beach explorers here and there, and what looked like a member of the color guard section making out with a tuba player, most of the children are climbing off of it to join their parents by their respective bonfires or else leaving altogether.

“Sure,” Keith smiles. “But let me grab a slice of pizza first.”

After filling their plates and hands full of snacks and drinks (Keith had ended up taking two slices of pizza and smuggling an entire bag of hot cheetos), they make their way towards the jetty. Keith watches as Shiro steps up onto the tall ledge of rocks, making sure he has his balance before climbing up onto it after him.

“In hindsight, I probably should not have gotten this much food,” Shiro chuckles as he maneuvers from rock to rock while trying not to spill anything from his plate. Keith, whose hands and arms are full of food and whose legs feel frozen cold from the cans of Coke he’s stuffed into his pocket, can only laugh along with him.

“There’s no turning back now,” Keith says. “We die like men out here.”

That earns him another laugh from Shiro.

Once they’ve made it to the end, about fifty feet out from the shore, Shiro takes a seat at the edge of one of the big boulders, letting his feet rest on a lower outcropping of rock beneath them. Keith drops the bag of hot cheetos behind Shiro’s back and plops down next to him, facing the sunset.

“So how did you feel about parent performance?” Shiro asks, pulling a fork out of his pocket so he can start digging into his food. Keith snaps open a can of soda, the sound of bubbles fizzing filling the air between them.

“Could have been worse,” he replies before taking a long sip and then a large bite of pizza. “Bass line still really needs a lot of work. They’re having a hard time keeping time as it is without having to keep up with the ridiculously fast beat.”

Shiro chuckles. “All important things a good Drum Captain would actively focus on working with.”

Keith lets out a big exhale. “Yeah. I suppose.” He turns the question back to Shiro. “What’d _you_ think?”

“Me?” Shiro smiles and glances back towards their bonfire posts where the entire band is milling around with a fond gaze.

“Hmm,” he hums before going quiet.

“Actually. You know what the first thought I had once we finished today’s show was?” Shiro asks after a moment. Keith shakes his head and continues to nibble on his food as he waits for him to continue. “It was just, ‘I’m not worried anymore.’”

“Worried?” Keith frowns after he swallows another bite. “What about?”

“Mm, mainly how the band will fare when I graduate,” Shiro says quietly. Keith sucks in his breath. It was Shiro’s last parent performance, his last band camp, and soon enough, it will be his last — everything in high school.

“Every generation of band kids has to manage somehow,” Keith points out while Shiro continues to work through the tri-tip on his plate. His throat feels constricted all of a sudden as he pushes his next words out. “Even if we _are_ going to be losing some of the greatest students of all time.”

Shiro lets out a soft laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all sentimental on you. It’s just that — watching this band grow and evolve and change from freshman year up ‘til now… it’s really just been the greatest journey. It’s hard to imagine letting go of the reins and moving on from it all.”

Shiro breaks off, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. “Listen to me — I sound like such a band nerd.”

Keith laughs. “We’re all band nerds to some extent. It’s kind of impossible not to be when we’re here.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Shiro says after swallowing his last bite of food. He sets down his plate in his lap, a contemplative look on his face. “I’m just… really proud of how far the band has come over the last three years. I’m proud of how far _you’ve_ come in just one. And I’m glad to know that I won’t have to worry anymore.”

“Yeah,” Keith assures him, his stomach fluttering. “You’re leaving a good legacy behind.”

Shiro smiles at him, then looks out towards the sea. The crown of the sun now dances upon the surface of the ocean, alighting Shiro’s face and fringe of hair in a beautiful golden glow. Keith’s heart aches at the sight of it, and something tight squeezes in his chest. The thought of telling Shiro how he feels right then and there burns in the back of his mind, as though the desire had been lit even brighter by the blazing sun. Keith wets his lips and opens his mouth, knowing his voice might just crack at any minute.

“Shiro—”

“Hey, Keith—”

They both break off at the same time and pause, waiting for the other to start speaking.

“You go first,” Keith says, and Shiro laughs.

“I was just going to ask,” Shiro begins. “If I told you that playing professionally as a musician or a drum major has been my dream since I first picked up a saxophone in the sixth grade, but that trying out for drum corps and pursuing marching band in college would put my health in jeopardy, and that I was going to go for it anyway, what would you say?”

Keith’s ears buzz with the last part of that sentence. “Wait — did you just say your health? Put in jeopardy?” His brows furrow with concern. _What was he saying?_

“Just answer the question, Keith,” Shiro says quietly. His voice sounds strained, thick. It takes Keith a few seconds to realize that when Shiro is pleading with him. Whatever it is Shiro is asking, he seems to really want to know Keith’s thoughts on the matter.

Keith relays the question back, trying to understand. “So… if you’ve always had this big dream, one that might put your health at risk, but you were determined to go on pursuing it anyway… what would I think?”

“Yes,” Shiro nods, his eyes still focused on some point on his knee. “What would you think, but also what would you say.”

“Well,” Keith breathes out, leaning back with his palms against the rock beneath him. _What is with this unexpected and_ extremely _loaded question anyway?_ “On one hand, I’d be a little concerned at first whether you were a little out of your mind, neglecting your health like that and plowing forward to fulfill your dreams…” Keith closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them again, he tilts his head up to gaze at the stars, which are just beginning to twinkle in the lavender sky. “But on the other hand, as soon as it comes, I’d swallow that thought, because I know that if it were me, there is no doubt in my mind that I would want to do the same exact thing.”

“You really would, wouldn’t you?” Shiro laughs, throwing his head back to join Keith in gazing up at the stars. “Is that more or less the same as what you would say to me?”

“Hmm.” Keith falls silent as he mulls all his thoughts over in his mind, trying to imagine Shiro coming out of nowhere to tell him this. Which maybe essentially, is what Shiro’s doing right now. “If you had just told me this, that you were going to pursue something despite the risks on your own health… I’d tell you: ‘If that’s what you truly want, so badly that you knew you could never live with yourself if you didn’t go after it, then — just go for it. Don’t let anything stop you.’ Least of all, me.”

Shiro brings his head back down to level, watching the sun disappear behind the waves in silence. For some reason, Keith’s throat clogs up again, and he stares out at the sea with Shiro, thinking.

He has no idea why Shiro would ask him about this, what it all means, or what’s going on in Shiro’s mind. Looking at it now, Shiro’s face remains impassive, giving Keith no hints as to whether his response was even something Shiro was looking for. He only knows that he spoke his thoughts honestly about it, and hopes that that will be helpful rather than upsetting for Shiro. But after giving such a lengthy explanation on his part, there’s nothing else Keith can do now except wait for Shiro to speak first.

At long last, Shiro heaves a great sigh and leans back against his left hand.

“My arm,” he begins to say. Another sigh. “Well. Since most of the band knows, I’m sure you’ve heard of this by now, but. The summer before eighth grade, my parents and I were involved in a car accident.”

Keith nods. Shiro’s right, he does know of this. It’s fairly common knowledge that Shiro currently lives with his aunt because his parents had died in a car crash. Keith understands; he is no stranger to loss. When he was five years old, his father had died in the line of duty as a fireman.

“When they pulled me out,” Shiro continues. “My right arm all the way up to my shoulder had been crushed beneath the car. It didn’t matter how quickly we got to the hospital — the nerve damage was… beyond redeeming. It wasn’t severe, fortunately. After a good few months of physical therapy, I’d managed to get to a point where I could mostly use my arms again. There are some movements that are still difficult for me to do, but overall, I was able to make a decent enough recovery.”

Shiro lets out a long exhale. “However. Marching and being the drum major has been… taxing, to say the least.” He opens his palms in his lap, letting his fingers fold and unfold. “The doctors said that if I overuse it too much, it might make the injury worse, maybe even leading to paralysis of the arm.”

Throughout all this, Keith stays silent. He’s torn between a mixture of sorrow for Shiro’s displacement and amazement that Shiro is even sharing any of this with him. Still, Keith wishes he could do something about it to help. It’s an awful and unfortunate set of circumstances to be stuck in and there’s really not a lot of ways around it.

“But… even if ten years down the line, my right arm stops functioning anymore…” Shiro takes in a deep breath and releases it, balling his hand into a fist. “I still wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I knew I hadn’t given it my all to keep trying.”

The sun has now completely set, leaving a dark, vast expanse of water stretching out to eternity before them. Keith looks away from the horizon and focuses his gaze onto Shiro, who turns to face him.

“I understand,” Keith says. “I think if I were you, I’d do the same.”

Shiro smiles. “Thanks, Keith. That… really means a lot. Not everyone is happy with my decision, which, I get. I really do. But it still disappointing to find out.”

Something clicks in Keith’s head just then, adding two and two together. Before he can think through what he’s about to ask, the question tumbles out of his mouth.

“Is that why you and Adam broke up?”

Shiro looks down at his fist, silent.

“I — I’m sorry,” Keith says at once. “It’s not my place — I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s fine,” Shiro assures him, giving him a small, sad smile. “Though to answer your question, yes. It was.”

Keith reaches out a hand and places it on Shiro’s shoulder; his best attempt at comfort he can offer right now. Regardless of his own feelings for Shiro, Keith knows he hates seeing Shiro like this. Shiro is meant for greatness, to shine so bright the rest of the world would pale in comparison. Now, his spirit feels like a small ember, and Keith wants to cup it with his hands to make sure it doesn’t go out.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly. “I’m sure he wasn’t—”

“I know,” Shiro cuts him off. “You don’t have to comment on Adam’s behalf. I’ve thought the situation through from every angle I can see. I really do understand where he’s coming from. And after lunch today, everything feels truly finalized now. I’ve made my decisions and I’m not changing them.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. He lifts his head up and gives Keith an apologetic smile. “Thanks for listening, Keith. I’m sorry for bringing such a depressing topic up.”

“N-no, it’s fine,” Keith rushes to reassure. “Thank you. For sharing.”

Now that Shiro looked considerably comforted, Keith removes his hand from his shoulder and folds his knees up to his chest.

They remain quiet for another few moments. Then, Shiro speaks up again.

“I just remembered. What were you going to say?” he asks, looking down at Keith out of the corner of his eye.

“Hm? What was I—?”

“Earlier, we both spoke at the same time,” Shiro reminds him. “What were you going to say?”

Keith’s eyes widen and he tucks his chin in between his knees to hide his blush. Caught up in the moment of watching Shiro watch the sunrise, he had almost tipped over the line of telling him how he feels.

“Oh, uhh… that. It was nothing.”

Shiro tilts his head in question. “You can tell me, you know.”

Keith breathes a sigh. He can’t tell him now. Not after this. Not when Shiro is still in the thick of a break up. He casts around for something else to say.

“I guess I just wanted to say ‘thanks,’” Keith says. “For everything you’ve done for this band. And for me. You were made for greatness, Shiro. Whatever you do after you graduate, I know you’ll do something amazing.”

Keith peeks over and sees a truly indescribable expression on Shiro’s face. If he has to pinpoint what it is, he’d go with a mixture of awe, surprise, and gratitude. A moment later, it fades as Shiro’s face splits into the most genuine grin Keith’s seen all night.

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. He lets his hand drop as he levels Keith with a serious gaze. “You should join me you know. One of these summers, for drum corps. I’d have to pick up trumpet again for it, or you can teach me how to play the drums. What do you say?”

Keith grins. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see.”

The two of them look back out across the sea, where a tiny speck of green light glows far across the distance, bright and promising. Although the prospect of drum corps is still a far away thing for Keith who is just starting his sophomore year of high school in a week, he finds comfort in the knowledge that he will at least be spending his days in the more immediate future alongside with Shiro before their great drum major’s last year is over.

**Author's Note:**

> my true motive for writing this fic is to meet all the bandos in the sheith fandom so please come say hello to me on [tumblr](https://flusteredkeith.tumblr.com) and/or [twitter](https://twitter.com/the__silverdoe)! come scream with me about band, music headcanons, ideas, any and all of that is welcome <3
> 
> scroll down below for notes on band terminology used in this fic!
> 
> art pieces for this chapter!
> 
>   
> 
> 
> **some terminology:**  
>  **tenor drums (also known as quads):** Tenor drums are basically mounted sets of 4-6 drums, [example here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPMXmiqnTzk)
> 
>  **drill (drill sets):** formations on the field you see are made using drill sets. each member of the band gets assigned a number, and after reading drill charts, we basically march towards each point all the way until the end of the show. we have to learn them a few at a time, of course. and then add music to it. lots of multitasking!
> 
> note: we also often had nicknames for some of the shapes we made in the show, to make it easier to reference when we talk about those sets, hence why sometimes iverson will name random shapes like "s-bend" or "the squiggly" here and there.
> 
>  **bpm:** beats per minute (for the metronome); 120 bpm is very standard, easy to follow beat. anything above 156 bpm gets really, really fast
> 
>  **roll-step:** when you march, the only way you achieve the smooth walking without your head bobbing up and down, is roll-stepping. basically, every step you take starts from your ankle and you roll down onto your toes. this is really the only way to maintain good posture and keep your entire self level and straight as you march and carry whatever instrument you have.
> 
>  **spit valve:** brass instruments usually have a spit valve on their instrument to collect all the spit that comes out as they play. they have to empty it out from time to time.
> 
>  **colorguard equipment:** mainly includes sabers, rifles, and flags. they look exactly like the word says they are, except obviously, they are safe to toss/throw/spin around. colorguard often wear protective gloves as well when performing.
> 
>  **some marching band commands:**  
>  **-band ten hut:** at this, everyone needs to snap into attention, which looks different for some bands but essentially consists of your body being stiffly straight, heels together, arms straight at your sides (or holding your instrument straight in front of you).  
>  **-parade rest:** shoulder width apart, arms folded in front of you (with your instrument if applicable) in a resting position  
>  **-horns up:** instrument snaps up to playing position  
>  **-dress center dress:** instrument snaps up to playing position, head snaps towards the center  
>  **-ready, front:** instrument snaps back down, head snaps back to front  
>  **-mark time hut:** start marching in place where you're standing
> 
>  **marching band roles / hierarchy:**  
>  at the top you've got the band directors, and usually colorguard instructors, drill instructors, woodwind and brass instructors as well. there is also a drill set writer, who usually isn't involved with the band, they're just people who write the show's formations that bands hire out.
> 
> the head drum major conducts and basically kinda represents the band as the leader, in a sense. everyone looks to them for direction (esp when the band directors are not around) and ideally should be able to trust / respect them as leaders.
> 
> each ensemble has a captain (color guard, drumline, brass, and woodwind), and each instrument's section within that has a section leader (sax, clarinet, flute, trumpet, mellophone, baritone, tuba)
> 
> let me know if i've missed anything y'all are confused about!


End file.
